


True Love

by Lala_Sara



Category: Cornetto Trilogy (RPF), Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: Drunkenness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-03 19:31:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4112389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lala_Sara/pseuds/Lala_Sara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon is contemplating slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	True Love

“You see?” Simon said, pointing his middle finger (the actual pointing one was holding the beer glass with its other siblings) at Nick Frost by the bar, who waved them with a sheepish smile. They were wrapping The World’s End and Pegg quickly became rather squiffy, though only Martin could see this.

“What?”

“No, you see?”

“What am I suppose to see?”

“He has man-boobs. He has moobs. I tell you, you’re a lucking fucky… fucking lucky bastard, that’s who you are.”

“What are you driveling about?”

“I slashed myself to that fat idiot, and you – to Mister Perfectbatch.”

“What? Slashed? How? What?” Martin choked on his own beer trying to process the idea of slashing someone _to_ someone. With a saw? An ax? How?

“Well then shipped. I shipped myself to Nick. Really. Learn the slang.”

“What? What the hell…” Now there’s also shipping each other stuff? Body parts, maybe? It’s about exchanging body parts?

“Jesus, Martin. Paired, then.” He demonstrated vaguely obscene scene between his two forefingers.

“Oh! _That_ slash. _That_ ship.”

“Yeah, I know you know. You know even more that I know. Right. So I’m with him,” Sy pointed finger at Nick again, “for life. And you, you lucky bastard, with Mister Cumber-Slumber-Dumber…” he hissed fretfully.

“No. Not like you and Nick. I’m not with him for life, dumbass. It’s just Sherlock.”

“Three seasons yet,” with the same not-pointing finger Pegg indicated Freeman and some air beside him. “Four films,” he showed the invisible bond between himself and Frost. “But then yours followed your little fluffy feet, didn’t he?”

“I’m slashed with Richard in there, remember?”

“But Ben literary wormed himself between you two.”

“Well, he followed your little… red shirt,” said Martin with a brief spark of jealousy.

“Not like this. We were not…”

“We’re not in Hobbit.”

“But you are.”

“No, we’re not. Shut it, you git.”

“Fans think you are.”

“Fans think Arthur Dent and Martin Crieff are an item, for crying out loud, who asks them?”

“No, but we’re actually talking about what they think, capiche? They’re shipping your separate roles! Now that’s for life indeed.”

“OK. What you want me to say?”

“That you’re a lucky bastard. I was first, but you made best.”

“Right. I’m a lucky bastard. Happy?”

“No. You don’t know why.”

“Really?” Martin snorted. This conversation was literally hysterical.

“You’re a lucking fucky bastard because you can always say that you’re with him just for his booty. He’s so fit, no one would question it. He’s like Madonna. I love you, baby,” he tried singing. “but face it, he's Madonna. No man on earth could say that he don't want her… him.”

“He’s still a guy.”

“But he’s fucking gorgeous! That’s the fucking point! I heard straight guys catcalling him!”

“You’re sure they weren’t doing it like criticizing his acting, maybe?”

“Really? Criticizing his acting? Benedict Flipping Cumberbatch?”

“Yes, bad joke, I admit.”

“Whereas my Nick… With his touching beer belly and moobs and everything he fucking is… Who’d believe me it’s… carnal? So what he sees in him, they’ll ask. No, they’ll fucking say, no, that must be _true love_.” He spat last words like venom.


End file.
